Three Scenes
by Cain Porter
Summary: As Wesker plots his rise to power, he unwittingly sets the stage for a surprising romance. A strange little love story. One-shot.


**ooo**

**December 1997**

**ooo **

Brian Irons had just finished positioning the most recent of his acquisitions (a fetching portrait of Gilles de Rais; Irons found his eyes warm and sadly sympathetic) when a sharp series of knocks interrupted him. He sighed and stepped away from the wall, giving the portrait one last once-over before returning to his desk. Sitting for any length of time, even a moment, made him uncomfortable. It was the sign of a great personality, he decided, being so restless. He had too much to accomplish.

"Come in," he said.

The heavy French doors opened, and Albert Wesker hesitated briefly before stepping in. He was taller and leaner than Irons, with thinning blonde hair that was always impeccably trimmed. Even inside he wore a pair of antique sunglasses and dark turtlenecks, an oddly European fashion that didn't suit him. More than once Irons had wanted to send him home to put on a tie, but the police chief couldn't legitimately hassle anyone based purely on aesthetics. Not yet.

Wesker took a small, understated armchair. He sat with both hands on his knees, his posture assertive. Irons wondered what kind of power game he was going to have to endure today.

"So,"Irons began, opening one of the manila portfolios on his desk, "I've been reviewing candidates for the interning position on secondary special forces. I think the obvious choices have distinguished themselves, but I wanted your input before I went ahead and---"

"I've selected a candidate, sir."

Irons paused, surprised. It wasn't like Wesker to be so straightforward about his agenda. "Oh?" he asked at last, and that was all.

"4117-238A..."

"4117? Why do we need a medical specialist? Meyers is one of the best men we've had on the line in years."

"Meyers is one of our most curious men," Wesker said stiffly, as if finding fault with the adjective, "and possesses many contacts in the national news media. He will not be returning after this Thursday."

Irons stared for a moment, then sighed again. "God damn it, Wesker."

"It couldn't be helped."

"Couldn't be helped? Sure it could've, if you weren't playing double agent all the time and raising hell instead of doing the job you're supposed to do. Do you realize this is the twelfth death we've had...we're _going_ to have," Irons corrected irritably, "in eleven months? The only reason the federal government hasn't co-opted the department is because I've been working overtime to juggle paperwork around, shift the numbers so that it looks good..."

"Umbrella appreciates your cooperation," Wesker said.

The coolness with which he spoke was infuriating. "Don't give me that shit. You think I'm getting paid to sit on my ass and do nothing? I spend thirteen hours a day calling people, organizing 'evidence', outsourcing accounting, keeping tabs on the press. And that's not counting the days when I have to meet with people like Meyers' wife and tell her that oh, by the way, her husband suddenly kicked it, but we can at least give her an American flag for the funeral." He ran one of his fat fingers over his mustache, sneering. "Your company isn't paying me half what I deserve for the work I do."

"It isn't my company, sir." Wesker tilted his head in a half-nod. "My role was never intended to be permanent. And you approved my application of transfer to the United States Field Marshall office last September, so..." He trailed off, but made no move to indicate that he was done. It was impossible to know when Wesker was ever finished with anything.

"Yeah, but that was part of the...oh, to hell with it. "Irons couldn't help a loud chortle. That was why he kept Wesker around; the man was a conniving snake in the grass, but so damn pleasant about it, too. "So that's what this is about, you old bastard. This isn't about just replacing Meyers. You want a replacement for yourself at Umbrella."

"It would be best for myself and the department," Wesker replied, emotionless as ever.

"God damn. I should know better by now, but here I am." Irons shrugged his shoulders and reached down into a locked cabinet under the desk. He withdrew a large bottle of old scotch and a lone crystal glass. "Hope you don't mind. It is Friday afternoon, and I've always had a bit of a weakness. Rude, I know."

"By all means, sir."

It was rude, but not intentionally so; Wesker was an alcoholic. As tempting as it sometimes was, Irons never tried to exacerbate the problem. He understood the pull of his own demons all too well. "Got some cigarettes, too," he said gruffly, pulling out an ornate box with a blue diamond on top. "How about it?"

Wesker didn't usually respond to kindnesses, and Irons knew it, so his wordless acceptance was unexpected. A few seconds passed before Irons realized what he was seeing. This was about Wesker wanting to leave town as quickly and smoothly as possible. Maybe something had happened at Umbrella and he had to skip town, maybe they were threatening him over his ties to the department, or maybe his transfer was part of it all. It was impossible to know just how far the Umbrella connections went, but that wasn't Irons' business. Hell, he was being paid to keep it from being his business.

Well. Back to the matter at hand. "So who were you looking at again?" he asked.

"4117-238A."

"Let's take a look." The chief flipped through his portfolio briefly and stopped at the corresponding file. He squinted. "What, this one? Are you sure?"

"Certain, sir."

"But..." Even if they were on friendlier terms than usual, Irons wasn't about to give his reasons for not having considered the candidate more thoroughly. "The education exceptions are great, really. But we don't usually hire to the special forces without prior law enforcement or military experience. That's not to say it doesn't happen, but it's not going to help our hiring statistics. The age isn't good, either."

"She's the most suitable for both this job and the..." Wesker coughed. "The liaison career track at Umbrella."

Irons poured himself the scotch with one hand, keeping his gaze on Wesker. "Several of the other candidates are far more qualified. I think you mean she's the most suitable for serving both this job and the Umbrella one at the same time."

Wesker took a drag off his cigarette, his posture as formal as ever. "Annette underestimates you," he said. "I hope for her sake the company never crosses swords with the Raccoon City Police Department."

"Well, I'll be, Wesker. Was that a compliment?"

"Take it as you will, sir."

Irons saluted with his glass. "All right, then. I'll give a call to..." He glanced at the name on top of the file. "...ah, Ms. Chambers, and you can train her as you see fit. I only ask that you use your professional discretion, hmm?"

He meant it as a joke, but the remark was met with a sour, tightlipped smile. "Rest assured," Wesker said, rising. "Not everyone takes such an _interest_ in their charges, sir."

The chief shook his head. "_Chacun à son gout,_ eh?"

"Indeed. Thank you."

Irons waited for the doors to shut behind him. After thirteen years Wesker had more than paid his dues to the department, and Irons wouldn't begrudge him a way out of that goddamn corporate hellhole if he could, but the hiring still went against his deepest inclinations. Ms. Chambers' face stared out at him from the little photograph.

"Kind of a homely thing, aren't you?" he murmured, and picked up the telephone.

**ooo**

**August 1998**

**ooo **

"I changed my mind," Birkin said abruptly.

Wesker didn't turn away from the control screen. "What's that?"

"I_said_ I changed my mind."

Beside him Birkin sat engrossed by the pages on his clipboard. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his face bristly with short stubble after five days without a razor (to his credit, it looked like a five o'clock shadow; Birkin hadn't needed to shave until shortly before his eighteenth birthday). He tapped his index finger persistently against the board, a sure sign of ideas racing in his head.

"Changed your mind?" Wesker repeated.

"About these subjects, I mean. This is the most thorough and consistent data I've ever gotten in twelve years of research. Can we keep them? Call off the traps, call off the Tyrants, see if we can get them alive. We could even offer them a job at central dev." There was a manic intensity in his voice, the kind that usually precipitated all of Birkin's most reckless proposals. That was Birkin's problem: catch him at the wrong moment and he'd take anything seriously.

"You're joking," Wesker asserted, mostly in the hopes that he could make it true by declaring it so.

"I don't know if I am. Have you seen this? In the past thirty minutes we got a full combat readout for the Vesper vertebrates. The folks down in simulation have been trying to get that for six months..."

Although Wesker considered himself a born stoic, he was also driven by results. "A full readout?" he asked, a bit too quickly. "Are you sure?"

Birkin held up the clipboard with a boyish grin. Constant stress under cold, artificial lights had aged him prematurely, but he looked even younger than his thirty-six years when he was excited. The same frantic genius that tormented him so much now made his eyes shine. "Take a look for yourself. Forty-one pages, and those are just prelims. All of S.T.A.R.S. couldn't give us that."

"Hasn't," Wesker snapped, no longer interested in the prelims. Despite his divided loyalties he was very much committed to both positions, and he took the remark as a slight on his leadership. "Alpha Team hasn't yet been conducted into a combat situation under my direction. With any luck we should have completed all of them by sundown tomorrow."

After ten years of working together, Birkin and Wesker knew each other quite well; after twenty, they were more like brothers. Birkin seemed to realize he had gone a touch too far, but took it with rare good humor. Nothing could deter him when science was afoot. "Well, hey. You trained the girl, didn't you? It shows. She might make some good research on her own..."

"You sound like Irons."

"You're disgusting."

There was a brief silence. The room's lone air conditioning unit dribbled a puddle of antifreeze in the corner. Onscreen Rebecca and her companion fired round after round of ammunition into an onslaught of beta-standard primates. Birkin occasionally glanced up to babble a bit about advantageous anatomy or replication rates, while Wesker was far more interested in their test subjects. Rebecca was a poor shot, but a surprisingly steady one, which was more than could be said for most of Bravo Team. She didn't scream, cry out, or sob, not even when she'd fallen through the floors. _Necessary survival tactics, she'll hold out as long as she needs to---but afterwards she'll be out of commission for weeks, even months. High risk for post-traumatic stress disorder, certainly. I'll see to it that she's monitored._

The other presented a bit more of a problem. He (Billy, as he was called; Wesker found out his full name was William Abraham Coen III) didn't fit into the typical Umbrella containment procedures because he had no prior corporate connections. Worse yet, he apparently couldn't be eliminated via the normal method. Five hours before Wesker had watched as the seemingly ordinary stranger disposed of six zombies at once. Each shot hit in the same place, just above the left eye, and Wesker had immediately known he was dealing with a military man. Sure enough, Coen's file had confirmed a top-grade Marine sniper deployed throughout Africa on reconnaissance and diplomatic backup. He was also credited for having built the children's wing of the Shammai Community Faith Center in Allentown, but that was less relevant. All that mattered was that Coen could kill, and kill easily. It would take far more advanced measures to dispose of him.

"...or not," he remarked, watching as one of the beta-standards seized Billy by the throat and sent him careening off the end of an open walkway. Rebecca ran to the railing and shrieked his name. In an instant Billy had disappeared off the monitors.

Birkin leapt up so quickly he dropped the clipboard. "God _damn_ it!" he swore, his fists clenched. "That isn't---that's not right! It's not supposed to use its body as the primary offensive mechanism!"

"It's learning," Wesker said.

"It shouldn't be! Cerebral functions are supposed to be deteriorating!"

"Then it's best we find that now, isn't it?"

"Not at the expense of my other research! That was a goddamned cheap shot!" Birkin cried.

He stood for a moment longer, fuming, then angrily threw himself down into his chair. "Didn't even claw him," he grumbled. "No utilization of the specific G-virus capabilities, no bloodshed. I could've done that."

"It looks like we're about to have a clean ending." Wesker nodded towards a screen where a mustachioed man was jogging up a stairwell. "Bravo Team has arrived. They'll rendezvous with Miss Chambers and move operations to the mansion."

"And Rambo Invincible drowns at the bottom of the drainage system," Birkin said glumly. He kicked beneath the control console like a stubborn child. "I guess we could wait for him to turn and then compare the results."

"Seems a waste."

"It's the least I deserve."

"There's nothing further we can get from him. Besides," and Wesker was sure to not sound any more judgmental than necessary, "Annette wouldn't approve, of course."

The air seemed heavy with tension. When Birkin spoke, there was an ill-concealed resentment in it. "It wouldn't be any different than the standard grunt projects."

"I thought she said no more human experimentation."

"This is real-time observation, not experimentation. It's not like he'd be chained to a post in the basement." He ran a hand through his stringy blond hair in exasperation. "Annette doesn't understand. It's not just about the financial incentives.

All the best resources go to this work, and it provides the basis for all the pharmaceutical countermeasures we make. She might as well ask me to cut off my own hands for all the good I'd be doing in another branch."

"Not that it's in your best interests to be doing too well. Dr. Marcus was the greatest researcher this company ever had. The second the company decides you pose a threat they'll turn on you."

"Christ, you think I don't know that? I watched Marcus bleed to death, same as you." Now, without the tantalizing work to provoke him, Birkin was like any other weary and embittered corporate drone. Even after so long, Wesker always found the change striking. "But I figure I've got at least six months before word on the G-virus gets out. If I go public I'll see to it that we're set for life. This is all for Sherry and Annette. I wish she'd realize that," he added wistfully.

What were the odds of the console room being monitored? No point in asking; of course they were being watched. Having more authority only meant having more people seeing to it that they stayed in line. Wesker didn't dare tell Birkin what he knew. "Annette's afraid you don't have that long," he said, carefully controlling his tone.

"Well, maybe not. But..." He stared at Wesker. "She said that? I know I've screwed up when she's coming to you to vent. Did she say anything else?"

Wesker wondered when he'd become the family's personal valet. He was already picking up Sherry from school two days a week and taking care of her every other Saturday night when the Birkins worked double overtime shifts. "Nothing you haven't already heard."

"I guess." Birkin clicked the top of his pen several times, his gaze distant. "I'll try talking to her again. I just need a little longer to complete the G-virus. It's good as it is, but not market-ready. There's still so much I don't know. It won't take longer than six months."

_You'll be lucky if you have six hours, _Wesker thought, and right then he felt very distant from his closest friend. He tried to feel regret for his impending loss, or even anger on his behalf, but it didn't come.

"Rebecca!" exclaimed the man on the screen, and both Wesker and Birkin looked up. The Bravo Team captain reached out to embrace Rebecca. "Thank God! This has been a nightmare come to life...we thought we'd lost you!"

"C-Captain Marini! I'm so glad," Rebecca said, her voice muffled by his heavy coat. She pulled away at last, looking away. "Captain, we lost Edward. On the train. I...I'm sorry, I should've tried to bring him back, his family..."

Marini shook his head. "I understand. We can talk about it when we meet with the others. We're just outside the old Arklay mansion. Here, follow me. We don't have much time." He moved to lead her away, but Rebecca resisted. Even on the small monitor her anguish was obvious.

"Rebecca, what---"

"I'm sorry!" she repeated helplessly, then moved to rush past him. Marini caught her firmly by the wrist.

"You aren't going anywhere. I don't care what you think your orders are, but right now all that matters is that you're safe and well. We need to reunite with the rest of Bravo Team!"

"Captain, I can't," she blurted. "I don't mean I'm not coming. Just...not yet. There's something else I have to do first. Write me up for disobedience and insubordination, I don't care, I have to, I have to go." Her voice broke. At last she wiped her eyes and bolted out of Marini's grip. "I'm sorry!"

Marini was left standing alone in disbelief, but he made no move to go after her.. "Rebecca...Officer Chambers!" he bellowed. "Officer Chambers! Come back! You'll die down there!"

A number of the monitors set on various hallways showed Rebecca as she sprinted through the basement passages. "What the hell is she doing?" Birkin asked, leaning on one elbow.

Wesker wasn't sure himself, but it went against everything in his nature to say so. "Perhaps she's going back for the lieutenant."

"What? No way."

"It's not impossible."

"She'd never met him before." Birkin sounded as though his reasoning was clearly infallible. Wesker chuckled.

"I don't believe she's there to collect a sample."

"It's not impossible."

It was quite telling of the Umbrella corporate lifestyle that Birkin found it more likely the girl was a double-agent Umbrella spy rather than concerned for a teammate.

"Shut off the drains and put in the filtering grates. If she's looking for a body, it seems only courteous to help her."

"I'm telling you, she's not going after him," Birkin muttered, but pulled himself a little closer to the console and accessed a maintenance module. "They made that big deal about cooperating only in order to get out alive, didn't they? He wouldn't do the same thing, I'm sure. She has some business with the virus you didn't know about. You said it yourself, you were training her. Maybe she's working with Annette."

"Somehow I doubt that."

They watched as Rebecca ran, Wesker feeling rather like he'd just placed a bet on a sports match. "Ah, you see," he said, "that's the drainage map. She's looking for him."

"Maybe she is, but not because she wants to save him."

"Why wouldn't she?"

"There's no benefit for her in that."

_Scientists_, Wesker thought.

Birkin pointed out a screen in the upper-right hand corner. "Ha! Up there, it's Billy. He got caught in one of the primary filters. If Rebecca takes the south path she'll find him in there."

"See to it that she does, and bring that up closer. He doesn't appear infected."

"He could've died before the infection set in."

"There aren't any major wounds that would indicate transfer. Not that it's necessary, of course," he added before Birkin could launch into a speech about the virus's unprecedented host jumping abilities, "but it doesn't appear that the beta-standard ever attempted to infect him. He should have a bite wound or the typical discoloration at the very least."

"Maybe it's a problem with the screen," Birkin said, although he didn't sound totally convinced. The enlarged display of Billy's body provided no more details either way; he looked badly battered, but far from a standard T-virus victim. He lay unmoving against a filter.

"Billy!" Rebecca's voice exclaimed from off-screen. She rushed into the monitor's view. Wesker and Birkin exchanged a look, each certain of their own opinions.

Rebecca moved him out of the gutter. "Billy...Billy!" She felt for a pulse on his wrist, his neck, and finally his chest. "Billy, no! No, please," she stammered. After a moment's pause she opened his mouth to resuscitate him manually. Birkin's jaw dropped.

"What...but..."

"Shhh," Wesker interjected, focusing intently upon the monitor. Rebecca's motions were automatic, yet panicky and desperate. Every press against Billy's chest seemed a plea for him to reawaken. The seconds stretched into weighty ages, and Wesker realized that he was unconsciously holding his own breath.

At last Billy coughed up a mouthful of sewer water. "G-god," he said weakly. "Th...the hell..."

"Billy!" Rebecca was suddenly on top of him, pulling him up into her arms. The gesture was somewhere between a simple act of physical support and a genuine grateful embrace; Wesker imagined Rebecca was torn between both. "Take it easy now," she said, whispering. "Just relax for a little while."

"Where am I?"

"I don't know. You fell, and I found you." She maneuvered him so that he sat facing away from her, his head back against her chest. Billy reached up to toy with a bit of her hair and coughed again.

"Thanks for that, babydoll."

"Wh-what?!" Birkin sputtered, and this time Wesker let him continue. "Why did she do that? She doesn't have any responsibility to him! If she's not working for Umbrella, then why is she...wait, no. How is he even_alive_?"

Of course Birkin could only go so long without immediately jumping to practical concerns. On the other hand, he made a good point. The chances of anyone surviving a fifty-foot drop into a moving body of water were exceedingly slim. Even if Billy just happened to be the luckiest man alive, he merited further attention on Umbrella's part. That was precisely the sort of luck they didn't need.

**ooo**

**September 1998**

**ooo **

Wesker sat with his arms folded, watching Raccoon Forest blur into a singular stretch of dark green foliage. Beside him Ada Wong drove the Jeep expertly over the uneven terrain. He had only met the woman two weeks prior, but soon decided she was just the sort of assistant he needed: capable, reliable, and not about to ask any questions. She seemed embarrassed about the pitiful state in which Wesker had found her and had immediately set about to proving herself useful. It was of no issue to Wesker, who had been preoccupied with his own concerns. If it made her feel better to drive a Jeep with one arm in a sling, then so be it. He had more pressing matters at hand.

There were a number of buildings at the edge of the forest Wesker knew he should have been seeing, but did not. His eyesight---no, all his senses---had diminished considerably since his awakening. Wesker had first noticed it when a cup of puerh tea had tasted of nothing. The notes of subtle earthiness that had brought so much comfort over the past twenty-five years was lost on him. It was a stark and unexpectedly poignant reminder that he was no longer human. He didn't need taste, or even good vision any longer. The power alone sufficed. Still, he felt a twinge of sadness at the loss of such a simple pleasure.

Not that it particularly mattered; pleasure was a luxury he currently couldn't afford. After the attack on Raccoon City Wesker had found himself in a position of complete power. As the only remaining administrative leader of Umbrella's American division, Wesker was promptly put in charge of both securing corporate interests and Raccoon City itself. It was the kind of power he'd always dreamed of having, but it felt like a hollow victory. There was no one over whom he could boast his authority, no one to conquer. There was...well, no one at all.

"Sir," Ada exclaimed, slowing the Jeep to a halt. She gestured towards a blurry figure that Wesker could vaguely discern as an overturned vehicle. "Sir, over there. There are tracks leading away from it. Should we follow?"

"Yes, Ada."

"Right." She altered their course so that they gave chase along the tracks. Within minutes they had approached a man bent over in pain. Ada pulled up alongside him, stopped, and unholstered her gun.

"This is restricted territory!" she barked, pointing the gun at the back of his head. "Identify yourself!"

"W-wait," the man said weakly. He shielded his face with his arm. From what little Wesker could see, the man was relatively young, and appeared to have been injured in the vehicle accident. He wore loose pants and a plaid flannel shirt over his muscular shoulders. He had the beginnings of a dark mustache and an unkempt beard.

"Bring him here, Ada," Wesker requested. Ada obediently jumped out and seized the man's collar with her good arm. She brought him in front of Wesker so that he could take a better look.

His face was bruised and bloodied, and the facial hair had done a remarkably good job of disguising him, but Wesker recognized the eyes at once. Eyes were the one feature that never changed with age; anyone who could remember eyes could never be fooled. It was part of the reason Wesker had spent so long learning to identify the hundreds of characteristics present in the human eye, and also why he kept his own hidden from view. He wasn't about to reveal the truth of his new self to all the world.

"Hell, do you do this to all the survivors you find?" the stranger asked, trying a sarcastic smile. Ada tightened her grip around his neck. "Ahh!"

Wesker was suddenly filled with something like hatred for this man, whose familiarity brought back anger and resentment he thought he couldn't feel. "That won't be necessary, Ada," he said, smiling for reasons unknown even to himself. "We'll bring him to the rescue station. Please help him be seated in the back."

"Rescue station? Hey, thanks. I'm looking for somebody, see..."

"I know," Wesker said, and the conversation was over.

The station was less than a mile away, just at the edge of the Arklay Mountains. There were several industrial-sized tents, ostensibly for "survivors" (there were none), an area cordoned off for surgical procedures, and a few private transport vehicles, including one of Umbrella's personal jets. Wesker was surprised and not a bit displeased to be put in charge of the "rescue effort"; while it provided him a great deal of control over Raccoon City, it also meant hours of burdensome paperwork he'd rather do without. As of yet no one had approached the city's remains looking to exploit Umbrella's secrets, but Wesker remained vigilant. He was sure the mercenaries would soon begin to trickle in. _Or perhaps he's the first. After all, it's not impossible..._

Ada parked at a dirt clearing in between two makeshift hospital tents. Wesker got out and took off for the jet at a slow, measured pace, with Ada faithfully in tow. The wounded man moved to follow them, albeit uncertainly. He walked with a half-limp.

"Hey, um," he began. "I appreciate this, but...maybe there's been a misunderstanding?"

Wesker wheeled around sharply. "What brings you back here, sir?"

"I..." The man seemed to understand that something very important hinged on his answer. He looked at Wesker for a long time, and when he spoke it was startlingly candid.

"Somebody came back for me once, when I should've been dead," he said finally. "I figure the least I can do is...is the same."

Ada became visibly tense, and Wesker made a note of her discomfort. She had told him of her mission and what happened to the Birkins, but little else. Something must have happened, something peculiar or more personal. Wesker was sure he would find out in time enough.

"Ah," he said softly. "So William was wrong."

"Who?"

"Ada, tell the jet pilot to set course for Walter Reed," Wesker commanded. "He will be taking two passengers, this man and myself. I entrust you with the camp in my absence."

"Walter Reed? Wait, no, that's not it. I'm gonna be fine, I said I was looking for somebody else!"

"Following the occasion at the White Umbrella facility, she went with the remainder of Alpha Team to the Arklay mansion." Wesker could feel the man's confusion and sudden dread rather than see it, and found it refreshing. So that was the pleasure of the human-Tyrant; cruelty would become his cup of tea. "She traveled to Washington to inform the Environmental Protection Agency about her findings in the forest and the strange chemicals she had encountered. While in Washington she fell ill with mercury poisoning and has been recovering in Walter Reed. That is why you are accompanying me there, Mr. Coen."

There was no echo, but Wesker imagined one anyway. The words were already resonant with meaning. Billy stood in stunned silence. Even the newly loyal Ada stopped, instinctively clutching her gun. Wesker smiled again, and this time he understood it.

"Who...who are you?" Billy asked, his voice faltering.

Wesker had wanted nothing more than to be asked that question in such a moment, yet he felt a need to heighten the drama a little more first. "That is of no concern," he said. "You will accompany me to Washington."

"I-I don't need to do that." Billy took a short step back, then another. He looked ready to flee. "If she's safe and well, then I don't need to---"

"It's too late for that, Mr. Coen," Wesker said, more shrill than he had intended. His self-control was slipping in the greatness he felt, the majesty and sense of worth that came about in creating such incredible fear. His heart raced with excitement. "You know, I've been intending to dispose of Miss Chambers for some time now, but I admit I've been otherwise engaged. I thank you for your reminder. If you wish to have no further business with me, we can depart amicably, and I can see that my work is accomplished."

Billy stopped and stepped forward again. Wesker could feel it as the fear in him departed, replaced with indignation. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a proposition," Wesker said kindly.

"What do you want from me?"

"Ah, you see, I have been maintaining watch over Miss Chambers at an exorbiant price. It is quite difficult to keep agents in line at such a distance, especially under scrutiny of the federal government. While it would be beneficial for me to be rid of her, like the rest of S.T.A.R.S., it would be quite costly. I admit, Umbrella is to blame for the initial mercury poisoning, but I don't believe we foresaw the consequences."

"What are you saying?" Billy demanded.

"...but it would be much easier to consolidate her task force," Wesker went on, relishing in the feel of total authority. "And with someone who had a..._private_ interest in Miss Chambers' well-being, I could rest assured that my directives were being followed."

"Go to hell," Billy spat, disgusted.

"Don't be hasty, Mr. Coen. All I ask is that Miss Chambers be well cared for, and kept out of contact from the other remaining S.T.A.R.S. If you would be so good as to comply and see that she stays out of Umbrella's way, I would..." He laughed. "Why, I could even guarantee that she remained alive, and that you could resume a pleasant life in America."

The look on Billy's face was more delectable than the best cup of puerh. "You're asking me to choose between slavery and murder."

"On the contrary. I'm asking you to choose between your life and the life of another. If my knowledge of your character is correct, then the choice has already been decided."

So this was the ultimate power, beyond sheer physical ability. This was what it meant to lead, to manipulate entire lives so simply and easily. Had Birkin felt this wondrous strength before he died? It was the most Wesker could hope for. Surely the man had not died in vain, surely he had achieved the same omnipotence Wesker possessed now.

For the first time Wesker saw Umbrella's goal in a realm past profit or scientific innovation. Umbrella had sought only to dominate and utterly destroy, even at its own expense. Birkin, a good man, an innocent man, had been consumed by Umbrella because he had endangered it; now that Wesker _was_ Umbrella, he could make that destructive force wholly his own.

"To keep her alive..."

Billy extended his hand. Wesker grasped it in his own and shook it firmly, his triumph complete.

"Welcome to the Umbrella Corporation, Mr. Coen."


End file.
